Why I Named My Depression, and What He Would Be Like as a Roommate

Editor’s note: If you struggle with self-harm or experience suicidal thoughts, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Lineby texting “START” to 741741. For a list of ways to cope with self-harm urges, click here.

His name is Sam.

You come home one day and he’s lying on your couch, his bag propped at one end.

You don’t know him but he seems at home.

You ask him to leave.

He smirks.

“Make me.”

Even if you call the cops and have them take him away, you can’t afford to keep him away forever so you take matters into your own hands.

You cook healthy food. You buy a treadmill and make him run.

You try to wear him down, make living with you so insufferable that he finally leaves.

One day, you come home and find his stuff has spread. His razor is propped up on your bathroom shelf, a thin dusting of hair on your sink. His jeans, smeared with ketchup and covered in crumbs, are in your laundry basket. His gaming console is hooked up to your TV.

You don’t have the energy to fight him, not today.

Stepping over his shit, you make your way to your room and quietly shut the door. You don’t want company either. Not with him here.

The next morning, you emerge to him taunting you. Vulgar curses. Deprecating statements about how you aren’t good enough, you’re fat, you’re ugly. Your boss thinks you do a shitty job and your friends are only pretending to like you because they pity you.

His spit lands on your bare arm as he screams, as you wade through his stuff and out the door.

“I bet you wouldn’t. I bet you’re such a wimp, such a spineless and pathetic idiot that you wouldn’t have the guts to. Why do you even bother living? This is just sad. You’d be better off dead, really. Don’t you think your parents are disappointed in you? Fuck, I’d be disappointed if I had a kid like this. I hate you. I fucking hate you.”

Finally, he gets bored and wanders off, and you’re left alone.

You wake up in the morning, again.

You half hoped you wouldn’t.

And he’s there, and his razor is still in your bathroom, and his unwashed jeans are in your hamper, and his life is plugged into yours.

It is a mood disorder characterized by: Loss of interest or pleasure in your activities; Weight loss or gain; Trouble getting to sleep or feeling sleepy during the day; Feelings restless and agitated, or else very sluggish and slowed down physically or mentally; Being tired and without energy; Feeling worthless or guilty; Trouble concentrating or making decisions; Thoughts of suicide.

It is a disorder that seemingly everyone has the cure to.

“Just run more!” “Eat healthier!” “Think positive!”

These are lies.

The average person with depression cannot garner the energy to engage in activities that might help them. That’s part of being depressed. As said on webcomic Hyperbole and a Half, “Trying to use willpower to overcome the apathetic sort of sadness that accompanies depression is like a person with no arms trying to punch themselves until their hands grow back. A fundamental component of the plan is missing and it isn’t going to work.”

If I could run more, if I could just “eat healthier” and be cured, I would gladly do so. But I can’t. I have depression.

I am not, however, depressed. Depression is not you. It lives inside of you, like a disgusting parasite, leeching off your energy and keeping you from doing and enjoying anything.

It’s a beast. A monstrosity.

Mine’s name is Sam. It’s empowering to give him a name because then I am reminded that he is separate from me — that I can defeat him without defeating myself.

With treatment — often a combination of therapy and medication — he can be forced out for good.

You are not depressed. You have depression. With time and support and lots of hard work, you can get rid of your own Sam.